


Fading Glory

by SumthinClever



Series: The Dying of the Light [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:59:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SumthinClever/pseuds/SumthinClever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an accident results in Sherlock going blind and John partially handicapped, they learn that they can heal and grow apart as well as together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fading Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GeekishChic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/gifts), [nannily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nannily/gifts).



> I want to issue a humongous thanks to both Erica and Cami who were with me from the very beginning when this fic was just some random idea I had after reading "Don't Is Not the Same As Haven't." They helped me kick around ideas and offered not only scene ideas but actual dialogue to this fic. I also want to thank Keri, Jeremy, Amy, and anyone else who read this during the editing stage who fixed my non-British tongue and my sometimes non-English tongue. You all helped to make this better.
> 
> I'd also like to dedicate this to Erica, but I forgot her AO3 name. =] 
> 
> Random note, "Xxx" denotes complete breaks in scenes, "..." denotes temporary breaks between related scenes.

_The beginning_

_Mid- February_

John was making breakfast. He was running on fumes and Sherlock was existing on his magical amount of adrenaline that never seemed to exhaust whenever a case needed to be solved.

John felt his feet dragging but he made tea and toast because it was one of the few things Sherlock would consent to eat while on a case. He had to eat. They’d been at this nonstop for 10 days.

“What are you doing?” John asked when he came back into the sitting room.

Sherlock was leaning over his Bunsen Burner heating God knew what for fuck all reason that John was aware of. He was far too tired to even pretend to know what Sherlock was doing anymore. Maybe he was just bored and playing with fire. Given the bullet holes in their wall, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“I’m running several tests on a series of metals made at the factory near where our victim was found. One of them might be relevant to the way Mr. Henley was killed,” Sherlock said without lifting his face from far too close to whatever metal he was heating.

“Put on your goggles,” John told him.

He’d gotten Sherlock a new professional chemistry set this past Christmas which had very reasonably come with a pair of protective goggles. Sherlock was not a fan of them.

He made a disagreeable noise in the back of his throat.

“They get in the way,” Sherlock said, not bothering to move his face any further from the burner.

“I don’t care. I spent years pulling shrapnel out of people for a living, Sherlock. You can’t even imagine the things I’ve seen. I should show you pictures. They’d revolt even you. But I’d really rather not have to do the same to you.... Or maybe I’ll put some shrapnel in you just to make a point.”

Sherlock ignored him.

“At least move back before you set your hair on fire or something.”

He may as well have been talking to Sherlock’s pet skull for all the reaction he got.

John debated the benefits of continuing to nag Sherlock about the goggles before he sighed. It was a long shot anyway. He did not have the energy to try and force it on Sherlock and nothing bad had happened so far with his careless ways. Well, nothing _too_ bad, at any rate. Hopefully he knew what metals it was wise to put a bit of distance betwixt himself and their burning.

“At least eat something. I made you tea and toast,” John said, walking toward him and holding the plate, saucer, and teacup out in hopes of enticing Sherlock to put off his experimenting for a moment. It was another long shot but John was hopeful.

“No,” Sherlock told him.

That was it. Not even a reason or an offer to postpone the food. Just an outright denial. When Sherlock stopped trying to wheedle his way out of things and expected John to capitulate without a fight, it was too much. John had to take a stand somewhere. He was an ex-army doctor, for crying out loud.

“Sherlock, you have to eat something. You’ve barely touched food in over a week.”

Sherlock made the humming noise in his throat that he used when he wanted John to think he was listening but really John had the least amount of his attention allowable. John had never yet been fooled by that sound.

“Sherlock-,” John started again.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Sherlock said cryptically, cutting John off before he could continue to nag.

“What thing?” John asked him, sufficiently distracted.

“Where you forget you’re not my mother. I _do_ have a mother, John. I’m not in need of two.”

John rolled his eyes.

“I’m not _mothering_ you, Sherlock. I’m just trying to look out for you because you are clearly incapable of looking after yourself.”

“Kindly look after me over there; I’m working over here,” Sherlock said, making a shooing motion with his hand nearest John.

It was the wrong move. His hand hit the saucer holding his teacup. The cup unsettled, tilting first toward John before tipping back toward Sherlock to hang precariously on its edge before losing balance entirely and falling off the saucer and directly onto whatever metal Sherlock had been experimenting on.

Sherlock let out an affronted noise and raised his head to glare at John, as if indignant that John had ruined his experiment. John opened his mouth to inform Sherlock the spill was entirely his own fault when the metal caught his eye.

The heating metal, having been soaked in tea, was bubbling and emitting some manner of gas. John saw the fire from the Bunsen Burner flare up a fraction of a second before the entire concoction exploded.

He pushed Sherlock out of the way as fast as he could, but not fast enough to keep him from getting a few fateful sparks to his face. Sherlock screamed and grabbed at his face and John searched for something to help him.

In the fear of Sherlock’s face of flames, John was only dimly aware that he had issues of his own to contend with.

Having pushed Sherlock out of the way, John had taken the brunt of the explosion onto himself. His jumper was ablaze and he tried to put the quickly burning flames out while simultaneously ushering Sherlock to the sink to flush his eyes.

With Sherlock at the sink, John stripped off his jumper, but not before obtaining some serious burns of his own. Whatever metal Sherlock had been experimenting on had seared right through his clothes and onto this skin. He would deal with those later. Having successfully gotten Sherlock out of the line of fire and into some water, John put himself to the task of extinguishing the flames on his clothes and on their sitting room table, where the fire was merrily spreading to the papers Sherlock had placed too close in his note taking.

It didn’t take long. Whatever Sherlock had been experimenting with, it didn’t seem keen to spread too far. The blast was almost all upward as far as John could tell. He was, unfortunately, too late to save any of his jumper, however. What remained of it was a black, smoking pile on the floor.

John continued to ignore his own burns as best he could now that the adrenaline was ebbing and the pain becoming more severe. But John was a soldier. He was taught nothing if not how to fight, endure, and push beyond. Instead of focusing on the pain, he went to see to Sherlock, barely biting his tongue. This would probably be a bad time for a lecture, wouldn’t it? Despite the fact that he’d _told_ Sherlock, only moments before, to move back and put on his goggles, hinted about something like this happening.

Sherlock was still leaning over the sink, head tilted to get the maximum amount of water to his eyes. Nothing convinced John to swallow his barely contained vitriol like the sound emitting from Sherlock now. He was whimpering. Soft as it was, Sherlock was never one to cry out in pain. This was bad. John immediately reverted to doctor mode.

“Let me see,” John said, easing Sherlock from under the water and up to face him.

Sherlock came reluctantly. John could see why. The flames had burned a bit of Sherlock’s cheek, but his eyes were the real problem. They were red and inflamed and John wasn’t sure if the water flowing from them was excess from Sherlock’s eye rinse or tears.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson came totting up the stairs and into the flat.

“Boys, what _is_ going on up-... oh dear,” she said, catching sight of John’s smoking jumper and Sherlock’s reddened face and John’s burned arm and back.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John said sombrely, “I think we need an ambulance.”

Xxx

_Early March_

John lay on his stomach, dimly aware of the splints he was getting far too used to that kept his body from forming contractures, staring at the bed that contained a sleeping Sherlock. Their injuries were quite different, but that did not stop them being in the same ward on the same floor in the same room of the hospital, not after Sherlock had put up such an unholy fuss about them not being separated. He was having trouble seeing and he would _not_ be trusting his recovery to ill-trained “specialists,” especially without John in the room to oversee their diagnosis, despite the fact that John was trained as a trauma surgeon with little to no knowledge of eyes. Not to mention fighting his own severe pain.

They’d gotten out of the emergency ward the night before after several weeks in. Now Sherlock’s ophthalmologist and John’s burn specialist were visiting the same place, doing repeated eyesight tests and twice daily passive range of motion activities.

John’s diagnosis was not good. Apparently Sherlock had been heating sodium metal and when the tea hit it, it reacted with the inherent water and released hydrogen gas. The gas ignited with the fire from the Bunsen Burner and set John’s jumper ablaze which scorched straight through to his skin. Because of how quickly hydrogen burns, both John’s left arm and a significant portion of his back were severely injured before he could remove his shirts. The flesh wounds were great and the nerve damage little better. He was already losing feeling in his arm and his back was tightening up uncomfortably. The doctors didn’t know exactly how much damage had been done or how much, if any, functionality John would lose. But he was told with physical therapy, he could possibly regain full use of the limb. It was less of a worry, but John still felt self conscious about the implications. Because of all the wounds he’d obtained in the war, John hadn’t been a pretty bastard in years and now these were yet more scars he’d have to live with.

Sherlock’s diagnosis was worse. The solid sodium metal that had not yet been melted before the explosion acted as shrapnel when the experiment detonated, expelling shards of the metal into Sherlock’s face. A few pieces burned his cheek, but the problem was his eyes. The shards pierced deep within Sherlock’s lenses, breaking the lenses’ capsules and allowing water to leak into the vitreous humour. Sherlock had developed cataracts in both eyes and it was inoperable because of the punctured capsules. The cataracts were partial now but there was a very high likelihood that Sherlock would go blind and no one was sure when. The doctor said it could be anywhere from weeks to years.

Mycroft was in near hysterics. He didn’t rant and rave like an average person, but he stood by the window and fidgeted from time to time and twirled his umbrella with the barest downward tilt to his lips. He was practically a nervous wreck. And despite his power as the British government, his ability to wage or cease wars with a swish of his umbrella, he couldn’t make the prognoses any better, for either Sherlock or John.

He planned to have them both tested again, likely a few more times in Sherlock’s case, but John didn’t think it was bound to get better. Not by what he’d seen so far. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.

John tried to flex his fingers. They were stiff and fought his efforts. It was worse than when he’d been shot. At least then he could feel _something_. It was pain, sure enough, but it was something. This was far too close to numb, to nothing.

John watched Sherlock in his induced sleep. He’d still been in too much pain. _Why_ hadn’t John made Sherlock put on his goggles? Why had he let him stay so close to the experiment? Why did John himself bring food and drink so close to an unknown substance? They were both careless.

Maybe if he’d done something, anything, differently, then maybe Sherlock....

No. John wouldn’t think like that. Regrets were completely useless right now. Nothing he almost did or didn’t do would help either himself or Sherlock now.

They’d just have to wait and see what happened, what became of them, what Mycroft could do for them, and go from there.

Xxx

_Early April_

As it turned out, Mycroft couldn’t do much. He couldn’t do anything. He sent John to two more doctors and Sherlock to four more over the next few weeks. Nothing changed except John finally getting a pressure vest for his back and arms. Endless hospital time. By the time it was over and even Mycroft had admitted defeat, both John and Sherlock were heartily ready to just go home.

John sat his and Sherlock’s suitcases on the floor in the door of 221B. Mrs. Hudson had met them at the bottom of the stairs and greeted them but they had been far too tired for prolonged pleasantries. John stood and just breathed deeply the air of home. He’d been gone from here for too long.

“Kindly step aside, John. I need to sit down,” Sherlock said brusquely from behind him.

He’d been getting increasingly more irritable as the tests never ended and his vision got no better. Frankly, it got progressively worse. It was only marginally for now, but Sherlock, being what he was, could tell the difference. But it was not so bad that he was yet willing to try corrective lenses or contacts.

John moved aside, stretching his body and making sure to stretch his left arm and back. It was tightening up on him and he was doing his best to keep it loose and limber. Waiting around in hospitals and cars was terrible for him.

Sherlock plopped onto his customary spot on the sofa. He didn’t say anything but John could tell he’d missed being there by how deeply he settled into its familiar comforts. Hospital beds would never compare.

“Tea,” Sherlock said.

Not a request. Barely even a command. It was a reminder of an obligation at this point. An expectation. Someone was upset? Make them a cuppa. Having a bad day? A spot of tea will fix you in a jiffy. The country at war? Surely giving both parties a strong pot of tea would settle them right down.

If something was wrong in 221B? Someone needed to make tea. And it obviously wasn’t going to be Sherlock. With no Mrs. Hudson around at the moment, the duty fell to John by default.

John walked to the kitchen to start the well-known task. Fill the kettle. Put it on the stove. Gather the cups. Pour the tea. Add the milk and sugar. Soothing. Familiar. Normal.

John put the cups on a tray to make them easier to carry, gathered it up and turned to take it out to Sherlock.

The cups clattered to the floor as all feeling in John’s left arm and hand gave out. The tray dangled from John’s right hand as he watched the tea drain from the shattered cups and spread like oozing blood across the floor. He let go of the tray so it, too, joined the mess at his feet.

John tried to flex his left hand again. His pinkie gave a feeble sort of twitch.

“John?” Sherlock said.

John looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room. John hadn’t even heard him approach. He was too focussed on his inability to move his limb.

John watched Sherlock’s eyes flick from his twitching finger to the mess on the floor and back to John’s face. He didn’t say anything else. What else was there to say? He didn’t offer to help, just turned and went back to the sitting room. John was glad. He would have resented the need for help and obviously Sherlock recognised this. He crouched down and cleaned up his mess himself.

Xxx

Sherlock was learning Braille. They could no longer pretend that Sherlock’s condition was reversible. His eyesight got no better and his mood got worse as Sherlock had difficulty seeing the words on the computer to type up his blog. He’d had to get a new laptop already as he had thrown his last out the window in frustration. Luckily Mycroft saw to this. A new laptop, equipped with all of the programs and documents Sherlock’s old had possessed, appeared on their table the next morning where the old one had rest. Neither John nor Sherlock mentioned it.

Xxx

Greg was more than used to Holmeses barging into his domains, invited or not. His long acquaintance with Sherlock had come hand in hand with a concerned and consequently interfering brother. Therefore, he was irritated, though not overly surprised, to see Mycroft Holmes sitting, bold as brass, in his sitting room when he’d returned home from a rough night on the job.

To let his irritation be very well known, he barely paused to take in Mycroft’s presence before sweeping right past him and into the kitchen for a well deserved cup of coffee.

Mycroft joined him after a moment and stood in the doorway, ever present umbrella firmly in hand.

Greg eyed him, up and down. He would be the first to admit that he would never be quite the deductionist that both of the Holmeses were, but even he could tell there was something off about Mycroft.

He held himself a bit more stiffly than usual, thin lips were pinched, and Greg could have sworn he saw worry lines etched into that indomitable face.

“Sherlock,” Greg said, with his first touch of worry.

Only Sherlock could cause Mycroft to be in any sort of fretful state. Greg had been worried over the last two months himself. Sherlock and John had disappeared in the middle of a case, now a cold one, and when Greg had come round to see about them, Mrs. Hudson had informed him there’d been an accident and they were in hospital. Greg had tried to go see them and been rebuffed by Mycroft’s people. Attempts at getting answers from the toft bastard himself had yielded no successful results.

He’d tried texting Sherlock, and eventually John, a few times over the next months, just to see if they were in any fit state to respond. When Sherlock failed to reply to even the whiff of a case, even if it was simply to tell Greg that it was simple and therefore boring and not worth his time, something was seriously wrong. He’d gotten no response to any of his attempts at contact and eventually it seemed the numbers he had for them both were no longer in service.

So Greg felt more than justified in ignoring Mycroft when he’d first come in, but if something was still wrong with Sherlock and Mycroft was here, it meant he could possibly help somehow.

“You’ve been made aware of an accident occurring at Baker Street a few months past,” Mycroft started.

It wasn’t quite a question, but he paused long enough that Greg nodded his head in confirmation, though he didn’t know the particulars. Mrs. Hudson never had seemed to have all the answers. Something about a fire....

“During one of his experiments for a case, Sherlock and John were victims of a hydrogen explosion,” he continued.

Was that a bit of accusation in his voice? As if Greg was to blame because Sherlock’s ill-fated experiment was in the service of a case? Greg buffed himself up to respond but Mycroft continued on.

“The results were not favourable. John suffered severe burns to his arm and back and may never regain full use of his limb. Sherlock caught shrapnel to the eyes. Because of the placement, it was inoperable. At the current rate of decay, he could very well be fully blind before the year is out.”

Greg inhaled a sharp breath before all of him deflated. That was much, much worse than he’d been expecting. He geared himself up to ask why Mycroft was here. What could he possibly do to help? Mycroft, surely reading his body language and facial expression if not his mind, side stepped his intentions again.

“Sherlock and John both are in...delicate positions right now. They are frustrated with the way things are going and the failure of the tests and doctors to improve their conditions. I have little doubt that they will keep to themselves for the immediate time being, but I ask that if Sherlock does reach out to you in search of activity, that you forestall him for at least another week or two. He has yet to come to terms with his fate and is little less than stable currently. He lashes out worse than ever as his mood gets progressively worse in direct correlation with his diminishing eyesight. I would appreciate it if you would give them both a bit of time to readjust to life at Baker Street with their new...situations.”

Greg didn’t know what to say. He doubted he’d be able to hold Sherlock off if he was of a mind to get involved, going blind or no. And frankly, Greg was anxious to see both Sherlock and John after two months of radio silence. He wasn’t sure he wanted to keep them out after all this time, especially if they wanted activity; they’d likely been cooped up in hospitals since the accident. But if they did need time to adjust....

“I trust you’ll put forth an admirable effort to assist me in this,” Mycroft said, and without further adieu, swept his way out of Greg’s house.

It wasn’t the first and unlikely the last conversation Greg would have with the man where he’d gotten not a word in edgewise.

Xxx

John lay on his stomach with Sherlock straddling his hips. He groaned. God, that was bloody amazing.

Sherlock pressed down further, applying firm strokes to the healing scars on John’s arm and back. He rubbed the ointment in and John sighed. It was the good kind of pain. He tried flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulder and was pleased when his body complied.

“You’re loosening up, John,” Sherlock noted in approval from atop him.

John hummed his agreement. He’d been getting a massage daily since his scars had healed over. In hospital, his burn therapist was in charge of them, but since coming home, Sherlock had taken over the task. John had no complaints. He’d always known Sherlock’s hands were magic. It only took watching him play his violin to know that. And if the feel of Sherlock’s weight atop him was pleasant in other ways, well, it really had been awhile.

Sherlock also assisted John in his thrice daily range of motion activities. He’d taken the activities from passive to active since leaving hospital and increased the frequency of them. Without the continuous watchful eye of the inpatient staff, John found he tightened up more, so he tried to compensate by performing more therapies including stretching, strengthening, endurance, and fine motor skills.

Some days his body agreed with him. Some days it didn’t. He found that when it didn’t, he worked it twice as hard.

He was training himself up for another war entirely.

Xxx

John was at the first of his bimonthly physical therapy sessions when Mycroft first came to visit. Sherlock sat in his chair, eyes closed, hands tentatively moving over his Braille books. He sensed when Mycroft entered the flat and took John’s chair but only paused for a fraction of a second in his studies.

Mycroft seemed content to let Sherlock practice without disruption for awhile, but Sherlock was aware of being watched. He did not like the feeling, especially when he was trying to teach himself something new and hadn’t yet mastered it. Especially when it was Mycroft that was watching him in that patient, superior, condescending way- not at all like John in his silently admiring way.

After a good fifteen minutes of this, Sherlock gave up all pretence of concentration and calm and threw the book from him, in the vague vicinity of Mycroft, before opening his eyes in a glare. It didn’t hit him, of course, but Sherlock watched Mycroft’s eyebrow lift in silent reprimand.

“I take it the Braille is not going well, then,” he said.

Sherlock huffed and turned his head toward the window, clear dismissal of the question and its implications.

“You know I could have someone come and teach you. You’re not expected to be entirely self-sufficient, Sherlock.”

Sherlock continued to ignore him.

“And where might John be this afternoon?” he queried instead.

“Like you don’t know,” Sherlock rebutted at last. “Like you didn’t time your visit until you knew he’d be at his therapy session, like you don’t have us both watched every minute of the day.”

Mycroft let that accusation sit in the air for a moment, not daring to refute it because really, why deny the truth when it was plain to both of them?

“Do you have everything that you need? Food? Toiletries? Medical supplies?” he asked at length.

“We’re _fine_ ,” Sherlock said petulantly. “And if we weren’t, John is perfectly capable of going out and doing our shopping.”

“I am just trying to help, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No, but-,”

“And when I _let_ you help, nothing was fixed!” Sherlock said, working himself into a proper tantrum, his frustration finally finding a suitable outlet. “Weeks in and out of hospital. Weeks of tests and probing and nothing. Weeks of my sight being lost incrementally more and more. Weeks of John being told maybe he’d get his arm back. Weeks of uncertainty and false hope for the both of us. Weeks, and it only got worse. So forgive me if I’m less than inclined to accept your _help_. When my vision goes, the only thing I won’t miss seeing is your glutinous face,” he spat, then strode off to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

Mycroft stood stunned for a moment, letting the striking pain of that last blow be absorbed, before the anger awoke in him. He was worried. He was trying to _help_. And Sherlock was brushing him off like this was any other fight they’d ever had. This was not the time for Sherlock to behave as if this were all his fault, as if they were still children.

Mycroft strode to the door of Sherlock’s bedroom and flung it open, glaring at Sherlock sitting on the bed with his hands clenched in his hair.

Sherlock looked up when Mycroft came in, face full of defeat and yet defiance. Mycroft had had enough.

“You arrogant little prick. If you would stop being so ungrateful, so hard-headed for one moment, you might see that this wasn’t all about you, that you don’t have to do this on your own. It is not my fault that the test could not make your prognoses better but I’m _trying_ to help you both deal with the aftermath. I know you are brilliant, Sherlock, but you _can’t_ do everything by yourself and you’re _not_ responsible for all of this. It was an accident and we have to deal with the consequences. Let me help take care of you. If you would just accept my assistance and stop being stubborn and feeling sorry for yourself, then you might actually be back up to snuff a lot sooner. I think it’s time to, as Gregory says, ‘get your head out of your arse,’” he finished, colour high in his cheeks in a clear indication of his temper flaring.

Sherlock just stared at him in a moment of total silence, then Mycroft tried to wrangle what calm he could and wrapped his dignity around him as he strode from the flat.

...

The Braille was not going well, as that smug bastard very well knew.

Speak several languages as Sherlock did, as good with his hands as Sherlock was, this was not, apparently, a skill that came naturally.

Sherlock made a frustrated noise in his throat and barely resisted the urge to heave this laptop from his person. It was so, so very tempting to let it meet the same fate as the last, but he did not want to have to owe Mycroft for getting him yet another, not after that scene earlier. Git.

The learning booklets were not helping. The instructional videos were not helping. He felt like he was learning ancient hieroglyphs all over again and even _those_ he had mastered in a few weeks. How the hell was he supposed to read when his vision deserted him if he could not master the only reading option offered to the blind?

He was heaving his impotence in a series of ragged breaths, feeling as though he had screamed aloud. He wished he could scream aloud. It might be so much more satisfying. It was better than the feeling that he was going to break down. It was better than wanting to cry. He hadn’t felt this worthless in years. He did _not_ need Mycroft’s help to figure this out.

He would learn this bleeding language. He _would_.

...

Sherlock threw his Braille booklet into the fire. It was gratifying. Much more fulfilling than trying and trying and trying and failing to grasp the language. He felt betrayed by his fingers. Why could they not feel their way through this? He could play his violin in his sleep. Having his eyes closed was no problem. Being blind would only make writing out his notes a challenge in that regard, but hopefully he could convince John to do that. But how the hell was he going to _read_?!

...

He was crying.

His fears and his frustration and his argument with Mycroft had finally levelled him.

He couldn’t do it.

Damn this, the one thing that he couldn’t master. The one skill he couldn’t hone. Damn the metal that took his eyes. Damn the case that brought it all about. Damn the safety goggles that he didn’t wear, that John told him to wear.

The only thing he couldn’t damn was John, for being right.

 But it was not supposed to be this difficult.

This was not the way it was supposed to turn out.

...

John found him like that, crying in his chair, the Braille books he had given up on crumpled on the floor at his feet, the charred remains of his earlier frustration tatters in the fireplace.

John pulled him to his feet and relocated them both to the couch.

“Look at me, Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock looked. John said nothing further. Sherlock could see John looking at him, searching his face, perhaps searching his own mind for whatever useless words he could try to say to make this better, make it easier for Sherlock to accept his defeat, or perhaps encourage him to persist in this fruitless endeavour.

He said nothing of the like.

“Close your eyes,” he said instead.

Sherlock did, wondering where this was going but really not caring at this point. He was so tired of caring.

He felt John take his hands and raise them to John’s face.

“Do you feel that?” John asked.

“Yes.”

Pointless question. Obviously he could feel himself touching John’s face. He tried to keep his tone neutral, to not betray how stupid he thought the question was. He did not think he succeeded.

He could barely even work up the fascination that this new experience- the first time he’s ever touched John’s face- should have brought with it in a deluge.

“What do you feel?” John asked him, ignoring his less than encouraging tone.

“Your face,” Sherlock answered. “Your cheeks,” he elaborated minutely as his thumb twitched out to stroke involuntarily. This was John’s face he was touching, after all.

John made a minor sound of assent. “What else?”

Sherlock took this as permission to move his hands.

“Chin. Nose. Eyes. Lips.” he ticked off as if he were going down a list of facial features. And if he spent a fraction of a second longer than necessary lingering on John’s lips, it was with permission...mostly.

John made his agreeable sound again.

“Yes, but what else, Sherlock? See with your hands. Tell me what you feel. Tell me what you ‘ _see_ ’.”

Sherlock felt. He moved his hands across John’s face slower than before. Yes, all of everything he said was there, but there was more.

The crinkles at the edges of John’s eyes.

The creases at the thinnest parts of his lips.

The slight folds where age was wearing on him.

The slight cut in his right eyebrow. Remnant of a war wound.

The bumps that produced the stubble of his beard.

Sherlock fancied he could feel John’s very _pores_.

He could feel _everything_.

He told John everything. Everything he felt. Everything he _saw_.

“Yes,” John said. Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice and when he opened his eyes, he found he was extraordinarily glad he could still see it.

“And if you can read me, you can read Braille,” John told him.

So Sherlock did. And if he imagined that every raised indention and dale were the hills and valleys of John’s face, it was nothing shy of a guarantee that he would never forget either.

Xxx

John soaked in the tub, letting the scolding water perform wonders on his wounds.

He’d have to ask Sherlock for another massage when he got out and was nice and limber from his soak.

He lay back, absorbing the heat and wallowing in the steam. He was tired and a bit sore from his exercises, but they were helping. His arm wasn’t obeying everything he wanted it to do today, but he was feeling confident in his progress.

As long as there was progress.

Xxx

Greg was less surprised but no less irritated when he came in to work and Mycroft Holmes inhabited his desk, legs crossed and body relaxed in a show of comfort. What was worse was that he sat there like he owned it. The man had such a self-possession and authoritative air about him, even Greg had to admit that the desk could have been his. This man was made for sitting behind desks and giving orders. There was nothing about him that doubted they would be followed.

Greg huffed, folded his arms, and glared at him from his office door. He would _not_ be sitting down at the seat in front of his desk like _he_ was the visitor.

“What do you want now?” he said. He would not end another conversation with Mycroft without saying a word. “I did as you asked and left Sherlock and John alone. Not that they even bothered to let me know they were back home, let alone asked for a case,” Greg added in an annoyed afterthought.

Didn’t he deserve something from them? A “ _Hey, we’re still alive_ ” at least. But no, nothing.

Mycroft unfolded himself from Greg’s chair.

“Exactly what I came to discuss. I think they might almost be ready for a case. They’re learning to live again, stronger than they were just a few weeks ago, less angry. They’ve had enough time to settle into a kind of routine, but I fear the now lack of mental stimulus is going to drive Sherlock batty again. It would be...helpful if you invited them on your next major case. Nothing so trivial as to insult Sherlock, but a nice healthy murder or two.”

Mycroft said the last with a bit of a smile, speaking as though he were asking a favour rather than giving a command. As though they were discussing the next football game rather than the possible future loss of a life.

“And why should I do it now?” Greg asked, just to be defiant. He was the bloody Detective Inspector, wasn’t he? He could not be cowed so easily, even by the imposing gentleman before him.

“Come now, Gregory. No need for this charade. We both know you’ve not only missed him, but needed him rather badly lately. Your stack of unsolved cases is quite piling up, don’t you think?” the smarmy git replied.

Greg coloured, both with embarrassment and anger. While it was true that it was taking longer to solve crimes while Sherlock and John were away and criminals gave the Yard no kind of break before adding more crimes to the list, he did not need Mycroft bloody Holmes pointing it out to him.

“Out. Get out,” he said. He would not be insulted about his ability to do his job by another Holmes, especially in his own office. He was more than capable of solving cases, had done before Sherlock ever came onto the scene.

“Now, Gregory,” Mycroft said.

“I said get out,” Greg repeated. On top of being insulted, he would remove Mycroft for the sheer pleasure of throwing a Holmes out of his space.

Mycroft got quiet and his eyes calculating, but he did exit Greg’s office after a few beats.

Nothing pleased Greg so much as slamming the door in his wake.

Xxx

_Late-April_

They were sitting on a bench in Hyde Park. Sherlock was wearing dark-tinted sunglasses to protect his very sensitive eyes and John one of his warmest jumpers. It was late-spring yet and John found that keeping his arm and back warm helped to make it cooperate. Some days were better than others.

They sat in silence and just watched the people pass. John didn’t feel the need to break it. With everything going on lately, it was nice to just enjoy something so simple. Everything was an adjustment right now. It was nice to have something be easy, natural.

“What will happen when I can’t see this anymore?” Sherlock asked out of nowhere.

John let the question hang in the air for a moment. What would happen? What would it be like? Sherlock, unable to see anything. Sherlock, less than at 100%. Sherlock, needing to depend on something or someone to help him do almost everything. John couldn’t even fathom it.

“I don’t know,” he said.

And he didn’t.

How would Sherlock get on? He would require a walking stick. Would he get a service dog? Would he always wear dark glasses in a universal sign that everything beyond them was black?

And what part would John play?

“Maybe... I could be your eyes?” John suggested with a bit of a shrug, as if the very idea of it wasn’t monumental, as if just the thought of Sherlock being without his own eyes wasn’t blasphemous. And blasphemy though it was, this was their reality now. This is what they had to deal with and this was John’s only solution. He didn’t know how it was going to work, but he was Sherlock’s...almost everything else. What was one more thing?

John felt Sherlock turn his head to look at him, but John had a hard time meeting his eyes. Not that he really could have with Sherlock wearing the sunglasses. He didn’t know what he was feeling or what Sherlock would read in his eyes, and he wouldn’t be able to read anything in Sherlock’s.

Not that his exposure to Sherlock’s stripping gaze was anything new (and what would happen when he no longer had that? John couldn’t imagine.) but this was a very sensitive subject.

“You...want to be my sight?” Sherlock repeated, confusion colouring his tone. The repetition alone was a mark of how struck Sherlock was by the suggestion. But he didn’t sound like he was dismissing the idea out of hand so John remained silent to let the thought sink in.

When Sherlock still didn’t respond over the next few minutes, John began to fidget. He knew Sherlock was masticating over the idea, weighing the benefits and risks of it, but the silence was killing him.

“You’re going to need some lessons,” Sherlock said eventually and John breathed again.

Xxx

Lestrade called with a case three days later. A woman had gone missing several days prior. She’d last been seen by her husband a week and a half earlier before she went on a business trip to Kiwayu Island, Kenya. When she hadn’t come home on the appointed date and ceased answering her phone, the husband had gotten worried. When contacting friends and family had yielded no response to her whereabouts, the husband had reported her missing. She’d washed up in the Thames today.

Sherlock surveyed the body, having to get a bit closer, spend a bit longer than he normally would have gathering his clues. John didn’t mention this, though he was sure Sherlock was aware of it, but he prayed none of the Met would notice.

Of course that was too much to ask for.

“Are you quite done hovering over that poor woman? Getting a bit slow there, aren’t you, Freak? Here Lestrade was betting you’d have this one solved in 2 minutes flat,” Donovan came over with her acid tongue poised.

Luckily Sherlock paid her the least amount of attention possible.

“And yet I can still do your job better than you half-blind and handicapped,” he said offhandedly.

Sally made an indignant sound and an angry retort which was ignored by everyone present. They were all too used to Sally and Sherlock squabbling to react anymore unless it looked like it might turn violent or got too personal.

But Sherlock’s remark caused John to inhale a sharp breath. They hadn’t told anyone at the Yard-- beyond Lestrade, but that was Mycroft’s doing, they’d recently found out-- about Sherlock’s condition. He was trying to go on as usual until he couldn’t, having finally consented to get clear contacts in his eyes. As of that morning, they were aware that John had been in an accident with one of Sherlock’s experiments that had burned his arm and back, since that was a bit difficult for John to hide as he could barely hold anything in his left hand, but as far as everyone else knew, Sherlock had gotten away with nothing more than the slight burn on his cheek that was well on its way to being completely healed. When they’d first returned and told the story of their long absence, Donovan had tried to make a snide remark about Sherlock being to blame for John’s condition, but both John and Lestrade silenced her almost immediately. Sherlock was oddly silent for awhile after that, until they’d gotten to the crime scene.

But now he was back to normal, or as normal as could be given his hindrance, gathering evidence as only he could, flitting around the body and saying nothing as yet.

Eventually he stood up and back and had a very self-satisfied smirk on his face. John suspected he’d solved the case.

“Tell me what you see, John.”

John was afraid of this. Ever since he’d agreed to be Sherlock’s eyes, he’d been getting lessons on seeing how Sherlock saw. Observing as well as seeing. They practised on people they passed in the street and objects they found sitting about.

He’d need to have it mastered within the next few months, or sooner if he could manage it. No one was sure just how much longer Sherlock’s eyes would last, how long until the cataracts completely blocked his vision, but at the rate it was going, he’d be completely blind by the New Year.

John crouched down, surveyed the body as Sherlock had. Changed angles a few times to try and gather the whole picture.

“Female. Mid 30s. Been dead at least five days, judging by the degree of her rigor mortis. Most likely killed by blunt force trauma to the head, though I don’t think these wounds to the abdomen did her any favours, either. Sustained before her swim given the colouring.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock intoned, and John smiled for a minute. “Except, as usual, missing almost everything of value.” And John groaned. He just couldn’t get the hang of this.

“Note the absent wedding ring, for one,” Sherlock continued.

“She could have been robbed,” Donovan piped up and was ignored.

“And the lack of a tan, which she surely would have gotten had she spent a few days in any part of Kenya at this time of year. Also note the faded imprint where her wedding ring once sat, indicating recent removal before time of death.”

Sherlock continued in this vein, citing several marks and indicators on the victim’s body that led him to his conclusion.

“She was obviously having an extra marital affair and chose to have some time away here in the city. Her boyfriend had been pressuring her to leave her husband and she had been consistently putting him off. When she refused this latest time, his temper got a bit away from him and he turned violent toward her. I suspect he didn’t mean to actually kill her, however, and panicked when he did. If he hadn’t, he certainly wouldn’t have thrown her into the Thames where she was almost certain to wash up in a matter of days. She removed the ring to satisfy him and he kept it after her death as a reminder.”

John smiled, deep affection for and pride in the man before him unabashedly showing. How was he ever going to do what Sherlock did, see what Sherlock saw?

Xxx

Greg was just finishing cleaning up the crime scene and turning to catch a ride back to the station when a sleek black car pulled up beside him. He recognised it instantly as Mycroft’s trademark mode of transportation and kidnapping and turned swiftly from it. He had nothing to say to the git and was not in the mood for him.

The car followed him as he walked away from it and all of a sudden, none of his team were around to give him a lift. This was obviously Mycroft’s doing. The bugger’s pull was strong. Greg didn’t know how he did it.

The back passenger door of the car swung open and Mycroft’s voice emerged from within.

“Please, allow me, Detective Inspector.”

Greg swore before getting in, realising it was this or catch a cab that he didn’t have enough money on him for. This, also, he decided to blame on Mycroft.

“What?” he asked when he was facing his abductor and the car shifted into motion. “You cannot possibly have anything else to say to me. I have done everything you’ve asked, though I debated leaving Sherlock off of this just to spite you.”

“Please, Lestrade,” Mycroft spoke to him soothingly. “I only wished to state my thanks for allowing Sherlock access to your crime scene again.”

Greg scoffed, knowing this was surely not all.

Mycroft’s smile turned a touch more amused in acknowledgement of the lie. “And to ask if you would keep a bit of a closer watch on Sherlock and John. Their...dynamic is changing.”

Greg looked at him. There was a small change in Mycroft’s face, less of the arrogant facade and more of the genuine concern he’d seen when Mycroft had first shown up and asked that Greg give the boys room to adjust before bringing them back onto cases.

“How so?” he queried.

Mycroft thinned his lips in silent contemplation for a moment, possibly searching for the right words.

“Sherlock has finally accepted his disability and has been working to find a way around it. He’s taught himself Braille and is working in other ways to acclimate himself to his coming blindness. This would prove impossible on cases, however. He needs to see. He can’t just go around touching everything to figure out what it is. So as you might have noticed today, Sherlock is teaching John how to be his eyes. It will not be easy for them. While John is far from stupid and has above average intelligence, he is as blind as the rest of you, no offence. As Sherlock puts it, ‘you see but do not observe.’ They are going to have a difficult time of it and I ask that you be patient with them when they run into trouble and Sherlock loses his head. John will be there to temper him as he often does, but he is facing his own challenges, too. His burns are still a problem and the added stress of being Sherlock’s eyes will weigh heavily on him. I am concerned for what they might do in effort to prove themselves to each other and to you.”

Greg just stared at him. He hadn’t seen Mycroft this visibly vulnerable ever, not even at Sherlock’s funeral. But that might have been because he’d known that there was no body being buried; Greg never did get that full story.

Greg nodded his head. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing overt,” Mycroft said, visibly gathering himself back together. “Go on as you would. Just keep me informed if they seem to be overdoing themselves. We’re not sure what, exactly, would exacerbate their conditions, but we’re trying not to make them worse.”

“Right,” Greg said, and, after a brief hesitation, laid his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “I get that you’re worried about them. It’s actually rather sweet, even if you do go about protecting him in the damndest of ways. And I’m glad to help. Believe it or not, I do care about them, too.”

Mycroft did not acknowledge this speech, just sat staring at the place where Greg’s hand rested on his arm.

“Er,” Greg said, patting Mycroft’s arm twice before withdrawing his limb. “Right. Well, if you don’t mind, would you drop me at the Yard? I have some paperwork to finish up about this case before I head home.”

Mycroft looked up from where Greg was no longer touching him and turned his attention out the window, causing Greg to look that way as well. He was surprised and confused to discover they were already outside the Yard and he wondered how long the car had been stopped without his noticing.

“Right.” He really needed to stop saying that. “Well, thanks.” He moved to get out of the car and looked back at a still suspiciously quiet Mycroft. “Er.” Just as bad as ‘Right.’ “Bye, then.”

And with that, Greg got out of the car and watched as it drove away, carrying its curious passenger to parts unknown.

Xxx

“John, this is completely unnecessary,” Sherlock grumbled while John tied a strip of black cloth over his eyes.

John decided that while he was learning to see, Sherlock should start new methods of learning how _not_ to see.

“Fine then,” John said, leading Sherlock to the front door of the flat and turning him around to face it. “If this is so unnecessary, go find the couch. Go make yourself a cuppa. Take a lie down in your bed. You have to learn where these things are, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I know my way around this flat, John. We have lived in it for years.”

John was undeterred. “Prove it.”

Sherlock sniffed indignantly before taking several confident strides forward. Then he paused, apparently unsure of his next move. He moved his foot forward, but slowly, as if feeling for any hindrances blocking his path.

“Problem?” John asked from his place by the door.

“Not at all,” Sherlock said breezily, almost effectively hiding his uncertainty. “I was just trying to remember if I’d left an experiment on the floor approximately three steps in front of me.”

Sherlock’s experiments nowadays were along the line of keeping himself functional despite his handicap. He had papers spread out to make sure he could still write legibly; samples of different kinds of terrain to ensure he could still differentiate based on smell, feel, and taste; a number of (non-explosive) chemicals in jars that he was trying to sort between; and various animals’ blood that God alone knew how he was going to tell apart without sight.

Yesterday’s experiment included taking apart Mrs. Hudson’s cell phone to see if he could reconstruct it solely on feel. It was not successful when he got frustrated enough to leave it.

“It would help if you refrained from leaving things on the floor,” John said calmly. He could keep the flat’s furniture and accoutrements arranged exactly in one predetermined way to make it easier for Sherlock, but he could never seem to get the brilliant man to stop leaving his detritus everywhere.

Sherlock did not deign to answer. Of course he would continue to leave his messes where he pleased. It’s what he did.

“Perhaps we can regulate a specific area for your experiments, then? So you will always know where they are?” John suggested. It was the best he could come up with.

“We’ll place the table at a 90 degree angle to the fireplace and keep them there,” Sherlock directed, as if he were really giving the orders right now.

John shrugged but complied, pushing the table so it set complementary to the fireplace. They wouldn’t need the fireplace for awhile yet so there was little danger of him experimenting so close to it. They didn’t use the table overmuch where it was except to hold their tea. He could get them smaller tables for that.

“I need to measure the exact amount of steps to both my chair and the couch,” Sherlock said, reversing his steps so that he was back at the door. “Is my way forward cleared?”

John cleaned up Sherlock’s cell phone experiment and deposited it on its new home location.

“It is now.”

Sherlock stepped forward again, but with both purpose and confidence. He trusted John’s words that there were no blockages in his way this time.

When he’d taken about seven steps, he slowed, apparently believing himself close to his destination.

“About two more steps, Sherlock,” John said from several spaces away.

Sherlock moved two final steps and his shins came flush with the couch cushions. He turned to John and smiled.

“Exactly nine steps between the door and this couch. That cannot change.”

John nodded before realising Sherlock couldn’t see him and instead answered, “Right.”

“Now the chair,” Sherlock turned.

And on it went. They practised and stepped until Sherlock could navigate his way around the flat flawlessly. He knew it was nine steps from the door to the couch, eight steps between the door to his chair, also nine steps between the door and John’s chair, but with a quarter step turn on the sixth step to change direction. He could make his way to the fireplace and the table that now held his experiments, could find his violin and music stand where they sat by the window, could locate his bedroom and find his way to his closet. He’d work on learning the texture of his clothes to find what could and couldn’t go together tomorrow. For now he put his notable forces to learning where the bathroom was and how to manage bathing and hygienic rituals on his own. He learned his way around the kitchen, though they were both aware this was just excess knowledge as he never did any of the cooking as it was. By day’s end, John could sit back and watch Sherlock walk as if he still had sight, meandering the flat for the simple pleasure of knowing his way around it.

Xxx

Sherlock was looking at John. He looked at John rather a lot these days.

He recognised that his eyes have always strayed in John’s direction perhaps more than was strictly necessary, more than was proper, but now Sherlock had a legitimate excuse.

One day, perhaps one day soon, he won’t be able to see this anymore- the way John’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, throwing into relief his already prominent laugh lines; the angry line his lips form when he’s frustrated; the smile/frown lip twitch he does when Sherlock has amused him with something completely inappropriate and he wants to display his disapproval but can’t quite manage it; the way, when he smiles, when he truly smiles for all he’s worth, his lips stretch so wide it’s as if they seek to outdistance the very limits of his face. Even the pained little moue John’s lips form when his injuries are acting up, Sherlock can’t imagine never seeing again.

He can’t imagine never seeing John Watson again.

Without seeing John, all of his world would be dark, anyway.

Xxx

_Mid-May_

_Care to go for drinks? –MH_

Greg didn’t know why he’d agreed to meet Mycroft for drinks. Something about that last encounter, where he’d let his concern for Sherlock show, and, admittedly, where he’d reacted so strangely to Greg’s touch.

Curious. That’s what Greg was. Curious to know why Mycroft invited him here. Curious to know what possible appeal he might hold for the man that had everything or could get it with a snap of his fingers, or a raise of his eyebrow, or a swish of his umbrella. This inner monologue had Greg laughing to himself, which is how Mycroft found him, engaged in some private and apparently hilarious joke.

He straightened himself up, but couldn’t keep the grin off of his face as he saw Mycroft’s ever-ready umbrella in hand. He gestured for Mycroft to take a seat and sniggered again when Mycroft sat but raised an eyebrow at him in question of his amusement.

He failed to reply to the question and changed the subject. They chatted easily. Mycroft hadn’t brought him here to actually discuss anything of note as they shifted topics from weather to work to family and beyond. It was really a very pleasant evening.

Greg caught a cab home wondering if he’d just been on a date with Mycroft Holmes.

Xxx

“Tell me what you see.”

They were going to do this until it was second nature.

John looked. He tried to observe. He took in every detail of everything that met his eyes and spoke his findings aloud.

“Deduce.”

John tried. He made basic connections between the given evidence and tried to find the logic and assumptions that could be reached based on his observations.

He was not sure how right he was in this regard. Sherlock was still the brain power behind the deductions. John was only supposed to give him the raw materials to get there.

Still, when he looked at Sherlock to see how he’d fared, he found a wide smile being aimed in his direction.

Now they were getting somewhere.

Xxx

Sherlock watched John doing his daily exercises, saw the pain it caused him, though the continuous motions helped.

Sherlock felt his regular dose of regret. He had done this to John. He hadn’t needed Sally to verify it for him; he already knew he was to blame.

John had moved to save Sherlock from the flames, though he only half succeeded. Sherlock was just as damaged as John, only permanently so. Where John was healing, Sherlock never would.

But Sherlock would take that. He’d even take John’s burns. He’d take it all, gladly, if it would have spared John from being hurt like this. How many times was Sherlock going to hurt John before John decided it was enough?

How long was John going to stay before he realised Sherlock wasn’t worth the effort of saving?

Xxx

_Dinner? –MH_

Now this was definitely a date. If Greg had had any doubts before, the tentative touching Mycroft engaged in all night was a mighty big clue. A touch of his hand here. A graze of his leg there. The lingering looks to Greg’s lips as he talked.

Now this was a development. One Greg was actually rather amiable to. Posh bastard Mycroft might have been, but a lovely posh bastard for all of that. Demanding, irritating git? Yes. But also concerned older brother that would do anything to ensure his sibling’s safety and happiness. Some traits far outweighed others in Greg’s eyes.

And he was a lovely conversationalist. Knowledgeable about topics far and wide. After awhile, he even stopped making Greg feel a bit slow for his knowledge being mainly focussed mostly on the parts of London he was responsible for.

It was another absolutely brilliant evening. And if Greg had had any, absolutely any lingering doubts, they were all swept away when he visibly saw Mycroft gather his courage and lean in and kiss him when the night drew to a close. Greg might have prolonged it, turned the kiss a bit more heated than Mycroft was prepared for, but Greg was not at all remorseful. He hadn’t seen anything as beautiful as Mycroft Holmes flushed with arousal in quite a long time. It was a very, very good night.

Xxx

_June_

John watched Sherlock making tea. It was really a dangerous endeavour but they’d practised and practiced until Sherlock could do it flawlessly. He still complained that he liked John’s tea better than his own, but John had always suspected he said that to get out of making it himself.

Graceful hands reached into cabinets with predetermined selections. Sherlock knew just where the tea sat because that’s where it always sat because that’s what they’d agreed on. Sherlock sniffed through the selections until he found one that pleased him and set about heating the kettle of water.

John loved that he was so sure of himself in this. So many times throughout the last months, John had seen him falter, hesitate when he came upon something they hadn’t practised. Seen him stumble over shoes he’d forgotten he’d left on the floor.

But this, he did without effort. It was a testament to his strength, that he could do these things. That he tried any number of things and failed in the beginning, only to triumph in the end.

And a show of strength, too, that he relied on John so heavily. John could admit that Sherlock had always relied on him. He’d had a girlfriend once call their relationship co-dependent. But what they had before wasn’t co-dependency. That was a...draw to one another. A severe level of friendship that was perhaps a touch on the needy side.

But this? _This_ was co-dependency. This was needing each other to actually survive. John couldn’t imagine anyone else he’d be willing to go through all of this with. He couldn’t imagine having to face this alone, another traumatising event, and to the same shoulder he got shot in.

John could very easily see himself spiralling into yet another depression. The only thing that kept him afloat was knowing that Sherlock was there, that Sherlock would allow John to lean on him, that Sherlock needed John to lean on in return.

Their dynamic worked. And if it was co-dependency, then John would happily admit to being addicted to Sherlock Holmes.

Xxx

_July_

Mrs. Hudson tutted around them, as was her usual. They’d increasingly been letting her back into the flat as they stopped being so wrapped around themselves and how they were coping. They allowed her to fix them tea because she was so insistent on fussing over them, but John followed right behind her correcting all of the things she put slightly out of place.

They refused to let her “tidy up” as she wanted, because there’d be no straightening up after that.

But they sat and chatted and Sherlock played his violin and it was a good visit. John forgot how much he’d missed having her so actively in the flat.

Xxx

_August_

Greg lay in Mycroft’s bed breathing hard after coming down from his climax. Myc, stiff, posh thing that he was, was no layabout between the sheets. He gave hard and took in equal measure. Tonight, he’d ridden Greg to oblivion and now lay spent beside him.

Greg roused up the energy to turn over and kiss Myc’s shoulder where it lay by his head before the energy deserted him and he plopped back down.

“That was great,” he said.

They’d been at this for months now. A date every other week or so. After those first few, the rest had tended to end at Myc’s place or Greg’s, depending on if he had the kids or not that weekend.

It had started off as just conversation. Then Mycroft had kissed him on their second date. Then the constant texts. Their third and fourth dates had been innocent enough, despite the level of ridiculous snogging, but after the fifth, Greg had been far too pent up. Luckily, it seemed Mycroft had as well. It had been a lustful few months ever since.

Now it seemed something a little...more. They’d never been shy with kisses, but it all seemed a bit more affectionate now. As if it all meant something more than enjoyable company and stress relief. Greg couldn’t be sure where Myc’s head was at, but he was positively fond, and those were very dangerous waters indeed.

He decided he should broach the subject before he got in over his head and found he was swimming alone. But just in case this had a bad end, he’d decided to do it _after_ he’d had his brains shagged out. Only seemed fair.

He summoned up some more energy and plopped onto his stomach so he could face Mycroft more easily. He pulled a hand to start carding through his hair.

“Myc,” he said.

He got a grunt of acknowledgement. Mycroft could rarely be arsed to do anything after they’d shagged. But as this was rather important, Greg would force a bit more of an answer out of him.

“We need to talk,” he said.

And that got Myc’s attention. He turned his head, letting Greg’s hand fall out of his hair to drag across his face before Greg pulled it away. Suppose touching wouldn’t be helpful right now anyway. Might influence the answers.

“Might be a bad time to ask this, but...is this going anywhere?”

Mycroft stared at him a moment before countering, “Where would you like it to go?”

Greg gave as good a shrug as he could lying face first. “I don’t know,” he hedged. “Just trying to see where your head was at.”

Greg could see Mycroft shaking off his post coital haze and actually taking him in. Greg really hated being subject to Holmesian scrutiny.

“What do you think we’re doing now?” he asked.

Another shrug. “Just wondering if this was still a fling, just stress relief, or something...more. It’s fine, whatever it is. I just need to know.”

“Would you like a formal acknowledgement of monogamy, Gregory? Shall I state my intentions?” There was far too much amusement in that tone.

Greg narrowed his eyes at him. He had not expected to be laughed at during this conversation. “Never mind,” he said and made to get up. Still just a fling, then. It was good to know before he got himself too involved.

“Gregory, wait,” Mycroft said, grabbing his arm and halting his departure. Greg looked back and all humour was gone from Myc’s expression and voice. “I apologise. I did not mean to anger you.”

Greg listened to Myc’s apology while his gaze raked over him again, deeper this time, likely finding all manner of things Greg was trying very hard to hide.

“Tell me,” Myc said, and his voice was completely sober, “where you want this to go.”

“I don’t know,” Greg repeated. “Somewhere? I ...care about you,” he started and prayed he wasn’t playing himself up to be rejected again. “I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent, whether or not we’re doing this,” he gestured to them lying naked and sweaty in bed. “I wouldn’t mind if we spent more time out of bed. And honestly, I’m really too old to be doing anything casually. I recognise that I’m not the greatest of catches and I obviously have no idea how to make a relationship last in the long run, but...I’m willing to try. With you. If you’d like,” he finished lamely.

Mycroft was silent a few moments before he picked his words out carefully.

“Would you believe me if I said I wanted that, too?”

Greg eyed him. “After a minute ago, not particularly.”

One side of Mycroft’s lips jerked up in a guilty apology. “Yes, well, I do,” he said.

And it was the lack of eloquence in that response that convinced Greg.

“You’re sure?” he asked, just to be sure himself.

“Gregory, I never pursue things I don’t truly want, and I never take things such as this casually. I want this. I want you.”

Well alright then. So they’d give it a go. He was officially in a relationship with Mycroft Holmes.

Xxx

_September_

Sherlock was playing his violin. It was an old piece he’d long had memorised. John didn’t think he’d composed a new piece in awhile.

He was lovely, really. All long lines and the subtlest curves. And his face when he played- relaxed and peaceful. He was never so at ease as when he played his violin.

 _God_. He was beautiful.

John tried to check these thoughts. Had been checking them for awhile now. They weren’t helpful, not with the relationship he and Sherlock had developed. Their co-dependency did not leave room for anything that would tip the scales. It was far too much weight on a still fragile bond and John did not want to take advantage of how much Sherlock needed him, or how much he needed Sherlock in return.

No, he’d just have to banish these desires to the void from whence they came.

Xxx

_Late-November_

Sherlock lay on his back on the sofa running through his mind palace. He’d taken to doing this daily, going through all of its rooms and making sure he could still remember, but more importantly visualise, everything precisely as it was.

His phone ringing made him vaguely aware of the outside world again, but not enough to actually answer the phone. Despite texts being almost impossible for him to see now, he still found the very notion of phone conversations detestable. He’d have let John answer if John wasn’t out at the shops currently. Instead, he would listen to the voicemail if whoever was calling bothered to leave one.

Sherlock spent the next 15 minutes finishing up his mind palace inventory before he troubled himself to listen to the voicemail he’d heard chime. It was from Lestrade. A case was on and the Yard was stalled again.

It was lamentable, really, how incapable the entirety of New Scotland Yard was at solving the most basic of crimes. Absolutely embarrassing. Almost made him ashamed to call himself British. Sherlock had half solved it just by listening to Lestrade’s voicemail. He longed to call Lestrade, and leave a voicemail, of course, telling him as such.

But Sherlock would do one better. He would go down to the crime scene and solve the case in his usual flawless way and sneer at Donovan for the simple pleasure of it.

The only problem was John. John had specifically told Sherlock not to leave the flat, as he always did whenever he went on some boring task that Sherlock found completely beneath his notice and refused to waste his precious energy on.

But the case was so simple. If he waited for John to return to go down there, the imbeciles at the Yard might muck up the scene or even let the criminal escape. It was Sherlock’s _patriotic_ _duty_ to ensure that didn’t happen. He might even be back before John returned from the shops.

Yes. He’d talked himself into it. He talk-to-texted Lestrade to let him know he was on his way.

...

Sherlock waited until he’d gotten to the crime scene to talk-to-text John to let him know he was with Lestrade. He told himself it wasn’t to keep John from preventing him from coming. No, it was to ensure that John came straight here himself after putting the merchandise away. Yes. Exactly.

The fact that he silenced his phone after that was also of no consequence. He just didn’t want it to be a distraction. Of course.

And a distraction he did not need. Lestrade’s team had made a mess of the crime scene as Sherlock _knew_ they would. Were these people even _trained_?

He ranted at Lestrade and a glowering Donovan a mile a minute about the ineptitude of the police force while simultaneously pointing out the ridiculously obvious deductions from the barest of clues. He was just getting his second wind to tell them where they could go to find the killer when there was a scream.

Sherlock whipped his head around in the direction the scream had originated. It was hard to make out, but the crowdbehind the police tape seemed to be scurrying from someone in their midst. He heard Lestrade’s slightly panicked voice shout “Gun!” and it happened before he was even aware of what he was going to do.

He moved to push Lestrade to the ground and felt the wind knocked out of him as a bullet connected with his side.

He was only marginally conscious of Lestrade yelling his name and Donovan’s shout of fear and rage and completely ignorant to the force of New Scotland Yard finally putting itself to use and tackling the shooter. The pain in his side was real and pressing and nothing was more important on Sherlock’s mind than figuring out whether or not he was about to die. And wouldn’t that be perfect, dying before he could go completely blind. Nothing was more important than not dying.

Well, nothing other than John, that is.

...

John was at the Tesco gathering enough food to last them a week. Maybe more considering how little Sherlock ate.

He was about halfway through shopping when he got a text from Sherlock.

_Lestrade called. Case on. I’ll meet you here. –SH_

And the use of “here” rather than “there” let John know Sherlock hadn’t bothered to text him until he was already at the scene. John blew out an annoyed breath. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t stay in the flat as John had asked him to. Escaped at the very first opportunity that presented itself. On the tail end of the annoyance was fear. Sherlock was an adult and he knew his way around London, but he was going _blind_. London was dangerous enough when you could see.

He tried not to let that annoyance or fear show when he texted back. John knew Sherlock was safe enough with Lestrade. And his training was going well. He could navigate a crime scene okay at this point by himself. He’d have to hold on for anything he needed to see better until John got there, which was just what he got for running off without telling John _before_ he left.

John beat both the annoyance and fear down and continued his shopping. He was pushing his trolley to the checkout when his phone rang.

A glance showed Lestrade’s name popping up on his screen.

John’s heart stopped. Greg never called with good news (and no, despite Sherlock’s elation, a triple homicide or locked room murder did not, technically, count as good news).

He answered with a terse, “Hello,” and heard Lestrade take a weary inhale before saying, “John, Sherlock’s been shot.”

John didn’t hear anything after that. Not the checkout lady yelling at him for abandoning his trolley, not the people he shoved out of his way getting to the door, not Lestrade’s tiny voice on the phone he didn’t realise he was clutching for dear life.

All John knew was that he was running. He had to make it to Sherlock.

...

Sherlock was annoyed and in pain and people were poking at him and Lestrade was yelling at him and he just wanted everyone to go away. He was _fine_. They had nearly said as much.

The bullet had grazed him, is all. It was a _flesh wound_.

He’d surely taken worse than this during his drug abuse days.

He wanted John and he wanted to go home.

He tried to push past Lestrade and the medical examiner and remove himself from the open ambulance but his side instantly rebuked him and a wave of dizziness clouded his head and the next thing he knew he was falling into darkness, deeper and more piercing than even his cataracts were causing him. So this is what going blind instantly looked like.

...

John made it to the crime scene in a daze. He couldn’t recall Lestrade telling him where to go. He couldn’t recall the taxi ride. He couldn’t recall making it past police lines.

He only knew he’d needed to make it here to Sherlock, and he’d missed him.

Apparently Greg had told the ambulance to take him to hospital.

And now John was left staring at the small spot of wet blood on the ground where Sherlock must have landed after being shot and allowing Donovan to explain what had happened and that Lestrade had accompanied Sherlock to hospital because he’d fainted briefly due to shock and blood loss.

And with that John dashed off again.

...

Sherlock woke up in a hospital bed with a needle in his arm and machine monitoring his vitals. Hateful. Far too reminiscent of his abuse days.

He sat up, wincing at the pain in his bandaged side. Not negligible, but still not enough to tempt him to stay here. He roused and disconnected himself before finding his clothes and dressing.

He needed to get back to Baker Street. He had to get home to John.

...

John arrived at hospital to discover Lestrade trying to calm down a hysteric nurse that had somehow lost her patient. Lestrade was apparently no stranger to Sherlock releasing himself from hospitals, with or without permission.

Again John listened to an account of what happened- how Sherlock had pushed Greg out of the way of the gunshot, how Sherlock had possibly saved Greg’s life, how Sherlock had been shot in Greg’s stead.

It was not enough to hear that Sherlock was surely okay if he managed to discharge himself. John needed to _see_ him.

John was starting to lose his head. Where _was_ he?

In the omnipotent way he had, Mycroft texted him then.

_He’s home, John. –MH_

John exhaled heavily before he allowed his feet to once more take him to the only place he needed to be- wherever Sherlock was.

...

John entered 221B Baker Street with a touch of apprehension. What if he’d somehow missed Sherlock again? What if he wasn’t here?

That doubt was quickly vanquished when he heard the crashes. One after another, glass hitting the floor or walls and shattering into a million pieces.

Sherlock was flinging them from the cupboards and making angry, frustrated, incomprehensible noises to himself.

He swung around when he heard John enter.

“Sherlock,” John said, carefully. It was rarely safe to approach Sherlock in one of these moods, even if John was filled with relief that Sherlock was well enough to be in a mood.

Sherlock let the last dish in his hand fly before turning his ire in John’s direction.

“Stupid. _STUPID!_ How could I not have seen that? Of _course_ he would come back to the crime scene. It was obvious, John, so obvious, and I _missed_ it! How could I have missed that? How could I not have _seen_?”

His tone was practically begging toward the end, as if pleading with John to give him some kind of answer for how he’d overlooked such a crucial bit of information. John was speechless in the wake of such a tirade.

“I-,” he started, but his voice faltered and failed. He had no answer.

Sherlock’s face shuttered and closed in the wake of John’s failure to justify his lapse.

“No. Of course I didn’t see,” Sherlock said, “because I _can’t_ see. Obvious. Pitiful.”

And his voice was so full of self-loathing that John reached out to him before he thought better of it.

“Sherlock, no,” he began again, but Sherlock twisted out of his reach before John could get a proper hold of him. He tried to not feel too stung at that.

Sherlock made a derisive noise.

“Please John, spare me. We both know what this means, that I can’t keep doing this. That I can’t-.”

And his voice broke off so suddenly, his words choked in his throat with a half-strangled sob and before John knew what was happening, Sherlock’s lithe form had crumpled to the floor in the biggest show of vulnerability that John had seen since Sherlock had first tried and failed to teach himself Braille.

John was on the floor at his side before he was even aware of moving. He wrapped his arms round Sherlock and was glad when Sherlock made no move to push him away, just let John hold him as his body shook with the sobs he was trying so hard to suppress.

“And it’s... all my fault,” Sherlock got out in shuddery gasps. “I didn’t see... that he was there.... I almost got... Lestrade _killed_.”

 John rocked their bodies and made soft shushing noises and sounds of negation. Of course Sherlock wasn’t to blame at all. Lestrade was still _alive_ because of him, not the other way around. He tried to convey all of this in the hands that ran soothingly along Sherlock’s sides and back and the tightness with which John held him.

“I can’t do this, John. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t....”

He set up a mantra. John wasn’t even sure Sherlock was talking to him anymore. He thought maybe his frantic genius was slipping away from him into the endless void of his own head and John held him tighter still to try to anchor him there.

He readjusted Sherlock in his arms and shifted them until they were facing each other. Sherlock had his eyes closed and was still mumbling to himself that he couldn’t. John was afraid of all of the things Sherlock was telling himself he couldn’t do.

John released Sherlock’s body to take hold of his face.

“Sherlock, look at me,” he demanded.

Sherlock didn’t respond, just continued his mumbling with a frown between his brows.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice took on what he thought of as his Captain’s tone. All command with more than the expectation of compliance, but the absolute certainty of it. No room for defiance. “Look at me,” he said again.

This time Sherlock stopped his rambling. The frown between his brows deepened, but his eyes fluttered open to peer at John. John waited until they focussed as much as they could and he was sure that he had Sherlock’s full attention.

“Yes, you can,” John told him. He hoped Sherlock knew that the words were all-encompassing. Yes, Sherlock could do this. Yes, he could still function while losing his sight. Yes, he could still solve crimes blind. Yes, they would get through this.

John watched as Sherlock’s eyes sought out his face, allowed the perusal as Sherlock tried to see into him.

Then something in his face changed, softened, took on a more unbidden uncertainty.

 “John I... Can I... I’ve wanted...?”

John listened to Sherlock stumble over his words, watched his eyes explore what they could of John’s face. The cataracts had worsened over the months and had nearly finished wreaking their havoc on Sherlock’s vision. It was no wonder Sherlock missed something at the crime scene. John saw Sherlock’s eyes searching what they could of his own, saw them dart down to where John’s mouth generally sat, saw Sherlock’s hands twitch, his fingers stretching as though reaching for something before curling back into themselves, uncertainty stopping their forward movements.

“John....” Beyond the panic and the self-loathing, there was desperation in that tone and it all added up to something that John just could not abide.

He stilled Sherlock’s pleading with his mouth.

For so long, he had dreamed of this. Before the gunshot that finally broke John’s resistance. Before the accident that was taking Sherlock’s vision. Not quite from the beginning, but near enough to it that John could not distinguish when this longing had begun. But from the beginning, he’d known that there was something about Sherlock that pulled him in, and that had always been enough.

He’d resisted then with the fervent recitation that he was _not_ gay, that he shouldn’t desire this from Sherlock, that they were _friends_. He resisted in the past few months because Sherlock needed him, he was his anchor, and moving their friendship into further, unfamiliar terrain felt far too much like taking advantage. Sherlock was struggling, suffering through something that would change his life forever. He was in an emotional upheaval. This was not the time to finally give in to temptation and dump his attraction on Sherlock now. He did not need the added stress.

But surely Sherlock wanted this.... How could John think otherwise, with the way Sherlock was clinging to him right now, with how his fingers dug into John’s back and scalp, with how tightly his grip bound John to Sherlock’s body? How could he ever doubt it, when Sherlock’s mouth was assaulting him with all of the passion John had ever seen Sherlock devote to his many experiments and cases? When Sherlock was pulling back even now, running his hands over John’s face, his shoulders, his chest, attempting to learn John’s body as he had learned so many other things by touch alone. How could John doubt Sherlock’s desire when the breaths tumbling out of Sherlock’s mouth were as ragged as John’s own?

“I almost _lost_ you,” John gasped into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock’s fingers clutched John tighter but he did not respond.

“You idiot. Why didn’t you wait for me?” John pulled Sherlock’s hair back so he could look into his face. “Why didn’t you wait?”

Sherlock whimpered, and John didn’t know if it was because the hair pulling hurt, or because he didn’t know how to answer the question, or because of the cessation of the kiss.

John gave into his desire and kissed Sherlock again, but harder, almost bruising, as if the pain was enough to remind him that Sherlock was here, that he was going to be fine, that John didn’t lose him, not this time, not again.

John gentled the kiss, allowing Sherlock to respond and kiss him back, turning it into the realisation of months of desire. This was what it was like to kiss Sherlock Holmes. This was how he tasted. This was how he felt.

John savoured and flavoured and reminded himself not to get lost or too enthusiastic and open back up Sherlock’s side wound.

There was also still the niggling doubt that maybe Sherlock didn’t really mean this, that it was the trauma and the fear and the guilt of the day’s events, of the last few months’ events, piling up on him.

John forced the doubts to the back of his head and tried to focus on the very real bundle of Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock, who was responsive and receptive and all of the other things John could have ever hoped for when he’d imagined kissing him, but who was also sad and guilt-ridden and self-hating right now.

John lessened the kisses into pecks until he could ease out of the kiss and not have it feel abrupt.

John shifted back until they were no longer in each other’s embrace so he could cup Sherlock’s face. John ran his thumbs over the drying tear tracks on Sherlock’s cheeks from the tears that refused to be suppressed.

John watched Sherlock’s spotted eyes rove over him, try to search him, try to read the meaning of his actions, of this tenderness. They fluttered closed when John leaned in to press his lips softly against Sherlock’s again.

Then John waited until Sherlock’s eyes were open again and watching him to speak.

“You know this wasn’t your fault, right?”

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he opened his mouth in what was sure to be a denial, but John persisted.

“You were aware of the shooter. You pushed Lestrade down, probably saving his life. You took _a bullet for him_. That’s _amazing_ , Sherlock. What you did was amazing and brilliant and it is the opposite of your fault. Don’t think Greg doesn’t know you saved him. He asked me to thank you. He’s probably guilty that you, as a civilian, saved him and he couldn’t protect you.”

“But John,” Sherlock said, and the self-retribution was still heavy in his tone, “If I had just _seen_ -.”

“You’re not expected to see everything, Sherlock. No one can. Not even you. Not even with full vision in broad daylight,” John stubbornly said when Sherlock looked ready to retort.

Sherlock scowled at him in equally stubborn petulance, almost definitely thinking that he was right and John was wrong but not willing to be rebuked again for saying it. This was how well John could read Sherlock. John kissed that petulant mouth again and the scowl softened fractionally.

“I know you have unnaturally high expectations of yourself,” John continued, smiling softly when Sherlock’s eyebrow rose as if to question that he couldn’t surpass natural expectations. “And I know you can usually meet them, but some things will take even you time. Be patient with yourself.”

John satisfied himself with a final kiss, this time to Sherlock’s nose, before raising himself from the floor and holding out a hand to help Sherlock rise as well.

“I should make you clean all of this up,” John said, looking around at the shattered dishes strewn across their floor.

Sherlock snorted, as he always did when John jokingly threatened to make him do work, but he did look around at the floor with a slightly guilty expression, as if realising the destruction his temper had caused.

“I doubt we have a single plate left that you haven’t experimented on. Why didn’t you smash those?”

Sherlock had no answer, as if he couldn’t imagine ruining his experiments just to exorcise the demons of his sulks. It was John’s turn to snort.

“Go lie down and try not to open up your side again. I’ll check you out when I’ve cleaned all this up. I doubt you stayed at hospital long enough for them to sew you up.”

Sherlock made a negative sound in his throat. John kissed the side of Sherlock’s head and went to get the broom. They’d have to talk about this some more- about what it meant, where it was going, about Sherlock actually listening when John asked him to stay put, but for now, John was content to let it just feel right. He knew that whatever this was, wherever it was going, it was a step in the right direction for them. So long as they faced it together, it was enough.

Xxx

Mycroft rushed to hospital as soon as he had finished texting John. As worried as John was about Sherlock, Myc might have been ten times as worried about Greg.

Mycroft had been following Sherlock like a hawk via CCTV so he knew every move his brother made. The shot was very bad but he knew Sherlock was, or at least soon would be, alright. He had a personal trauma surgeon on his way to see to his bandaged wounds, assuming Sherlock didn’t open them up before John got there. He looked to be in a towering rage when he’d made his way into Baker Street.

But Greg was another story. He’d narrowly escaped being a gunshot victim, too, and Mycroft was sick with the could-have-beens. He knew that Greg was a police officer and was trained for these possibilities, but dammit, _he_ wasn’t prepared. His boyfriend had almost been shot, his baby brother _had_ been shot, and Mycroft had come close to losing them both. He was frantic to get to hospital and ensure himself that Greg was fine.

He ran down the corridor to find Gregory filling out paperwork. He didn’t even halt his steps or alert Greg to his presence before he engulfed him in a tight hug. Greg let out a sound of surprise and Mycroft took it as an affirmation of his health.

He felt the heartbeat beneath his fingers and held on yet tighter. God. _This_ is why sentiment was dangerous. Caring was _not_ an advantage. Caring led to losing your head when those you loved were in danger.

Mycroft’s loved ones were crime solvers. He was fucking mental.

“Hey,” Greg said while stroking his arm, apparently having realised whom was holding him. “Myc. Hey, look at me.”

Mycroft looked up and it was the height of irony that Greg was the one looking concerned for him.

“I’m okay. See?” Greg made to hold his arms out to display all of him but Mycroft was still holding him in an iron grip. He’d rather feel that Greg was okay than see just at the moment, thanks.

Greg pulled his arms back in and turned in Mycroft’s arms so he could hold him back. “We’re both fine, Myc. We’re fine,” he said soothingly.

Not good enough.

“Are you done here?” Mycroft asked him, intending to get him as far away from this place as soon as possible.

“Yeah, just let me finish-,” Greg was saying, gesturing vaguely to the paperwork he had been completing before Mycroft surprised him.

But Mycroft dragged him away from desk before he’d even completed his sentence, let alone the paperwork. He could do it another time or Mycroft would send someone to complete it for him. They were getting out of here _now_.

Mycroft had them in the car and on the way to his house before Greg had really finished complaining. He stopped when he seemed to realise that one: Mycroft was not heeding a word of it and two: Mycroft had still not relinquished his death grip on Greg’s arm. Greg was a smart man. He likely knew what Mycroft needed right now.

When the car pulled up to Mycroft’s house, he dragged Greg from its confines and inside the house. He needed to see now, to ensure himself that he was okay. He pulled them up to his bedroom before turning on Greg and finally releasing him.

“Strip,” he ordered.

He really didn’t mean for it to come off so demanding like that. It was a hardness born of anger and panic. Greg apparently knew that. He watched Mycroft for a second before he did as bid.

He didn’t rush to remove his clothing as this was not a disrobing born of excitement or desire. This was a careful act for careful observation. The jacket came first, then the gun laid aside. He pulled off his shirt and then his vest. He undid his trousers and pulled them down his legs, pants in tow.

Mycroft catalogued his injuries. Bruise on his hip from when Sherlock pushed him out of the way and he landed on his side. Scratches on his fingers from where he’d tried to break his fall. A slightly pulled shoulder from where he’d caught Sherlock when he fainted.

That was really all that was wrong with him. Mycroft knew Sherlock was much worse. Gunshot wound. Blood loss. Fainting spell. And an inability to sit still long and therefore the likelihood of opening his wound before it had the chance to close properly. All of that notwithstanding, it was still Greg that worried Mycroft more and he didn’t understand it.

He stepped forward and engulfed Greg in another hug. Greg held on again and murmured nonsense reassurances into Mycroft’s ear.

Not enough.

He broke the hug to rain kisses all over Greg’s face. He kissed his cheeks, his eyes, his chin, his forehead, before spending long minutes on his mouth. When he didn’t have the air for that any longer, he kissed down his body, making sure to pay particular attention on any bruises or sores or cuts he’d likely gotten in the line of duty.

Mycroft got on his knees and paid devout attention to the bruise on Greg’s hip. He worshipped it. He might have been too fervent in his adoration, he might have made the bruise worse, but Greg did not seem to mind, moaning above him and stroking Mycroft’s hair as he was. He couldn’t help but clench his fist when Mycroft licked at his wound.

Mycroft kissed his fingers, giving each digit homage to his thanks. He was grateful that this body, this man, had been spared what could have been such a worse fate.

He backed Greg up so that he was sitting on the bed and then Mycroft stripped himself. Parts of Greg might have been damaged but at least one part in particular was whole and healthy and interested. Greg was ready and his eyes were screaming at Mycroft to hurry up already.

Mycroft lost his clothes as fast as time and fumbling in his need would allow. He made his way over to Greg and pressed him into the bed. Now Mycroft worshipped him with his hands, letting them roam and explore this well-known territory with a new sense of feel. Mycroft tracked every bump and bruise he’d seen and traced them delicately now. Massaging them into healing.

Mycroft was so full right now, fit to burst. So many words and emotions tangled within him. He was choking with the need to get them out and yet they caught in his throat. He didn’t have the words for what he needed to say. So he tried to convey them with his body.

 _I love you_ his inner voice screamed into the darkness.

_I love you I love you I love you._

He fumbled for the lube in his bedside drawer. He prepared himself and was in Greg in moments.

_I love you I love you I love you._

This well practised dance had him exorcising his fears.

_I love you I love you I love you._

But it was different, this time, with the truth of the words that he couldn’t say aloud.

_I love you I love you I love you._

He put a hand to Greg, needing him to feel this, needing him to share in this realisation.

_I love you I love you I love you._

_I almost lost you!_

That he could voice and it tumbled from his mouth as his hips stuttered as he approached climax.

_I love you I love you I love you._

Greg jerked underneath him as he fought and found his way to bliss.

“I lo-, I almost _lost_ you!”

It was a wail. A high pitched, aching sound that he would never admit to being capable of in the light of day and even right now he was ashamed to own up to it. He was not used to feeling this much for anyone. The truth sobbed out of him.

_I love you I love you I love you._

“I almost lost you both.”

His impotence was admitted as his body gave into exhaustion, his orgasm tainted with the weight of his tears.

And now he was crying. It was pitiful.

Greg stroked his hair again as he often did. He kept his silence, somehow knowing that Mycroft was not done baring himself and needed to do it to the dark and quiet. When Mycroft had gathered himself and what he could of his composure, he spoke again.

“I feel so helpless. How can I protect him? How can I protect you? I can’t stop either of you chasing criminals. It’s your job. One of these days someone won’t miss. I almost lost you both.” And he winced, just slightly, just thinking about it again.

It was better, Greg lying beneath him, a very solid presence upon which Mycroft could count the signs of humanity and unload his burdens. He could feel the heart beating, feel the lungs expand and contract as he drew and exhaled breath, feel the blood pumping through his veins from where Mycroft had buried his face in Greg’s neck.

Greg allowed the silence to stretch out a bit before he answered, speaking quietly into the darkness that surrounded them.

“You can’t.”

And it was those two words that broke Mycroft and had him crying again, though silently this time, tears trickling down his cheeks and into Greg’s hair.

“It’s not your job to protect us, Mycroft. We will go out and get scuffed up and come home with a patchwork of bruises. It’s only your job to put us together again when we get there.”

Mycroft wanted to debate this statement but he couldn’t deny that’s also what he did. He couldn’t stop them from going out, getting hurt, but he could put some preventive measures in place to lessen the dangers. He also couldn’t deny that Sherlock often circumvented the pre-emptive measures he did put out.

“But who’s protecting you, Mycroft? Will you let me?” Greg asked quietly.

And Mycroft didn’t quite know what he was talking about. Though he was involved in any number of dangerous things, since that went hand in hand with running a country or two, most of the dangers were distributed among his people. Further, Greg didn’t know the full scope of what he did.

He nodded anyway, just to be on the safe side.

Time stretched out and neither of them spoke again for awhile. Greg resumed his carding of Mycroft’s hair and Mycroft laid still and listened to the sounds of Greg’s living.

He was almost asleep when he heard Greg say, somehow muted in the dark, “I love you, too, you know.”

Xxx

Lestrade’s team couldn’t help but know something was wrong with Sherlock after the shooting. It was inevitable.

Surprisingly, it even shut Sally up, to hear that a brain like Sherlock’s would be stymied by a lack of vision. She seemed guilty, perhaps for her inconsiderate remarks when they’d first returned to work when everyone was led to believe that Sherlock escaped from the accident with nothing more than a cheek burn when John was practically disabled. It made her less inclined to antagonise him with her taunts.

For all of five seconds, before she was cuttingly reminded that Sherlock did not need to see her to engage in a snarky insult contest. Things returned to normal after that. She seemed relieved. Though John detected a marked decrease in the amount of venom in her words. Hopefully Sherlock didn’t sense the slight pity in her behaviour. He’d hate it.

Xxx

_Early December_

John waited for the phone to stop ringing and the sleek voice to pick up before he spoke, cutting straight to the point.

“Mycroft, I need a favour.”

....

John laid on the bed, waiting for the 3-D scan to begin. He waited for his innards to be probed and captured and handed to him like any other picture. He had the greatest gift in mind and he just knew it was going to break Sherlock apart.

Xxx

Sherlock hated the idea of spending Christmas Eve with their friends and Mycroft. His vision, and truly, it was almost a joke to call it that these days, was almost nonexistent and he could tell that it was likely a matter of weeks, if he was lucky, before he couldn’t see a thing. He wanted his time to be filled with nothing but John and their budding relationship. John was all he was really regretting not being able to see anymore.

But John insisted that they continue with the tradition of seeing everyone on Christmas Eve and even extended the time to make it a dinner. Sherlock complained but eventually relented to please him.

Xxx

John led Sherlock around the flat by the hand. Sherlock’s vision was the worst it’s ever been and he could barely see anything. John tried to describe their decorations to him- the tree, the strings of lights, the holly, the mistletoe. The last was the only thing Sherlock was truly interested in as he took the opportunity to kiss John wholeheartedly.

John led them to the presents they’d gotten each other- a new violin bow for Sherlock, a decent jumper for John, a 3-D model of a heart for Sherlock, a new stethoscope for John, a CD of classical music for Sherlock, newly polished dog tags for John. They left the gifts they’d gotten their friends for when they would see them all tonight at dinner.

...

Sherlock was beside himself, exploring the 3-D model of the heart John had given him.

From what little he could see, and it was, regrettably, incredibly little, the model was exact to a real human heart. Sherlock explored the atriums and the superior and inferior vena cavas, the aorta and the many valves. He placed the inner organs by hand, by the feel of them, by touch memory of when he had once played with human hearts at Bart’s. 

“Where did you get it?” he asked John, looking over in his direction. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost make out the whole of John’s face. He suspected some of that way memory, as well.

“I had it made,” John said with a smile in his voice.

“Really?” Sherlock queried. “Couldn’t find one in any shops?” This seemed like the easier route overall.

“Probably,” John said, and there was definite laughter in his voice. Sherlock could not understand why. His question was simple. “But that one is special. That one is _mine_ ,” John finished.

And there was definite emphasis on that last word with a bark of actual laughter, none suppressed. And Sherlock thought, _His?_

And it took Sherlock far too long, almost an entire half minute, before it clicked. This heart was John’s. It was modelled after John’s own. _He was holding John’s heart in his hands._

All the air left his lungs and he was dizzy with it. He barely had the breath left in him to gasp out John’s name.

Then there wasn’t much more to be said after that, beyond Sherlock demanding John get an entire skeletal replica done so that Sherlock could learn John inside and out, because then Sherlock is kissing John and kissing John and kissing John and then there was no more time before their guests arrived.

...

John sat around the table and smiled at their guests- Mycroft and Lestrade (who Sherlock stoutly refused to acknowledge were a couple, despite the obvious and the admission from the two [stiffly on Mycroft’s end, warmly on Greg’s]), Mrs. Hudson and Molly.

They’d exchanged gifts and had drinks and chatted for awhile before finally settling down to eat. Mrs. Hudson had provided most of the meal and was clucking over it, encouraging everyone to pile more onto their plates.

John spent his time between stroking the back of Sherlock’s neck in effort to ease the petulance from him and chatting across the table to Molly about her latest cadaver. Friendly table conversation.

He only focussed on Sherlock when he felt the man stiffen under his fingers.

...

Christmas Eve dinners were tedious. Sitting and listening to the talking going on around him with their senseless conversation topics. Only Molly’s talk about her latest body was marginally interesting, but the man had only died of old age. Boring. Mrs. Hudson and her nattering that Sherlock only enjoyed some of the time. He recognised that this was not one of those times. His vision was practically wavering and he knew he was growing more irritable because of it.

He picked at food he couldn’t really see and some of which he was hard picked to name even given the taste.

The only blessing of his coming blindness was that he didn’t have to see the obvious signs of Mycroft’s and Lestrade’s...togetherness. He could barely think it. All he’d had to do was focus on them both when they’d arrived together to see the indications of their hands all over each other. And if even he, in his state, could see it, then surely everyone could see it. It was sickening. And right before he was expected to put food into his mouth.

And it was only made worse by the fact that Sherlock’s and John’s relationship hadn’t developed that far yet. The thought that stiff and snotty Mycroft was able to let go before Sherlock could bring himself to.... It was only the knowledge that Mycroft wasn’t nearly as broken as John and Sherlock were right now that kept his disgust from showing too much. It was drowned in far too much self pity.

The only reason he hadn’t spoken or acted out yet was John’s soothing hand stroking his neck. Sherlock turned to look in John’s direction and he felt the small smile curving his lips when his vision allowed him snatches of dirty blond hair and strong cheekbone. He knew that when he found himself ready for it, John would be right there with him. Sherlock’s heart warmed as he saw John’s lips spread as he laughed at something Molly had said.

Sherlock was just preparing to turn back to continue his attempt at eating when a sharp pain sprang up behind his eyes and all of a sudden his vision completely blacked out. Sherlock stiffened and sat where he was, hoping against hope that his vision would re-emerge, even the spotty disaster that it’d been the last month or so. He blinked a few times and turned his head back to face forward. The movement did nothing more than the lack of it had done moments ago.

So this was it. It was over. Sherlock was surely, finally, completely blind. He worked on keeping his breathing as normal as he could.  

He became aware of John’s hand on his neck again. It had stilled and tightened from the stroking it had been doing earlier and John was leaning close to Sherlock’s ear asking him if something was wrong.

Sherlock couldn’t speak. He shook his head and he wasn’t sure if it was in answer to John’s question or not.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said to the table at large without looking up. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood, dislodging John’s hand. He pushed his chair in and thanked every deity that he didn’t believe in that he didn’t stumble over anything on his way to his room. He shut his door behind him and made his way to his bed. Sinking down, he buried his hands in his hair and focussed on not hyperventilating.

This was it. He was blind. Bugger.

...

John stared after Sherlock for about ten seconds as he disappeared into his room before excusing himself from the table as well. Something was wrong with Sherlock and he needed to find out what. John’s heart clenched as he made his way to Sherlock’s room.

...

Mycroft sat looking at the door that his brother and his beau had closed themselves behind. He couldn’t move. All he was truly aware of were the completely dark eyes that Sherlock had just turned his way moments ago when he’d faced his plate again. It was done, then. Sherlock was blind and would never again see a thing.

Mycroft didn’t know why he felt so much shock when they all knew this was coming, but he still couldn’t bring himself to move.

He listened to Sherlock’s landlady/housekeeper twittering on and worrying about what could be the problem and why both boys disappeared behind Sherlock’s door. Greg and Molly were trying to soothe her and assuring her they were positive everything was fine. If only it were. But it wasn’t. And to an extent, it never would be again.

Mycroft let the realisation wash over him in silence as he waited for the pair to re-emerge.

...

“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

Sherlock knew it could only be John that had followed after him so soon. No one else would have even dared enter his room, biohazard that it is.

Sherlock loosened his hold on his hair and raised his head to look at John before remembering that he couldn’t see him even if he did. That realisation tore a hole through him. He couldn’t see John. No more of John’s laughs or smiles or frowns or.... Sherlock’s mind spiralled with all of the nevers.

He was aware when John approached his bed and sat beside him.

“Sherlock?” he repeated, with a bit more caution in his voice now.

The grief was making Sherlock hysterical and a bubbling half laugh half sob escaped his throat before he could control it. He heard John’s surprised indrawn breath before he was engulfed in strong arms.

Sherlock couldn’t hold back anymore and he broke. Tears ran down his face but he tried to minimise the wailing that wanted to break out, if only because he didn’t want Mycroft to hear and know that he was so weak as to cry for something he had long since known was coming.

“Shh,” John said, his face pressed into Sherlock’s neck and his arms rocking them both. “I’m here.”

They sat there for a few minutes while Sherlock cried himself out. When his muted sobbing slowed, John loosened his hold and spoke from a few inches away.

“Do you want me to ask them to leave?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t even need to think twice about it.

“Yes.” It was hateful, the way his voice cracked like that. Rusty from crying as it was. Instead of risking hearing it again, he just nodded his head vehemently just in case John didn’t quite get the message.

“Alright, love. I’ll be right back,” John said.

Sherlock almost wished he’d said no when the warmth John carried everywhere with him deserted him. He could have stood to have everyone remain in the other room if John stayed here with him. But it was better this way.

...

John didn’t know what to do. Sherlock was crying in his arms and Sherlock almost never cried. He needed to find out what was wrong and he needed to get all those people out of their dining room. Now.

“I’m sorry,” John said as he emerged from Sherlock’s room and spoke to the people still gathered around his table. “I’m afraid Sherlock is feeling poorly and I really need to take care of him at the moment. It was lovely to see you all and Merry Christmas. Feel free to wrap some of the food up when you leave. Goodnight,” he said, turning back for Sherlock’s room and hoping everyone took to hint to make themselves scarce.

“Oh John!” Mrs. Hudson called from behind him.

John halted briefly. If anyone were to stick around and prattle, it would be her. He looked over his shoulder at her.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Will Sherlock be alright, dear?”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Mrs. Hudson. He just needs to some rest and some quiet. Goodnight,” he said again and closed himself back up with Sherlock.

He waited a moment as he listened to everyone rising from the table and clearing up after themselves. He nodded to himself, assured that they were all making their way to the door. He had other things on his mind than escorting them out personally. John made his way back to Sherlock, who seemed to have recovered himself for the most part but was gazing down at his hands.

“Sherlock? Can you tell me what’s wrong? What happened?” John asked again.

Sherlock cleared his throat and visibly composed himself before raising his head and looking at John. Except not quite. John finally made out Sherlock’s completely darkened eyes. There was no more recognition there.

Sherlock nodded his head, as if knowing just what thoughts were going through John’s head and agreeing with them.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, voicing John’s thoughts. “It’s finally done. I can no longer see.” And his voice was steady if strained, telling John just how much control it was taking for Sherlock to state these words this calmly.

John couldn’t speak. So it was finally over. All the build up and the worrying and the practising and studying was for this. For a blind Sherlock.

John felt his chest tighten and he collapsed onto the bed besides Sherlock, not even knowing his legs were going to give out on him. John struggled to control his breathing and convince himself that this was okay, this was expected, they were ready for this.

Instead his breath caught and he threw himself at Sherlock until he was flattened against his mad genius at every point. John fought to tell himself that this was not the worst thing that could have happened. At least Sherlock was still here and safe-ish and in his arms. John had lost Sherlock in much worse ways than this before. And yet the acknowledgements did nothing to stop John’s own tears from coming or triggering more of Sherlock’s.

They lay in bed and John cried and Sherlock, in the most arse-backward turn, stroked John’s hair and back as if John was the one that was permanently disabled and therefore the one that needed comforting. John couldn’t quite find it in himself to laugh at this irony but hugged Sherlock closer to him and they spent the rest of their Christmas Eve in each other’s arms.

It was alternately the best and worst Christmas Eve John had ever experienced.

...

Mycroft ushered everyone out of the flat in a way that had him impressed with his own fortitude. But he knew if he was feeling terrible for what Sherlock was going through, then Sherlock would certainly be feeling several times worse, and it wouldn’t help to have anyone besides John here to witness what was sure to be a breakdown.

Mycroft made sure that Mrs. Hudson was safely back in her own flat before he consented to leave the building. He saw Molly to a cab and he allowed Gregory to precede him into the black limousine that pulled up before them, whisking them back to his own home.

When they arrived, Mycroft listened to Gregory speculate about the cause of Sherlock and John’s distress with half an ear. While Gregory knew it was coming, it should be Sherlock’s decision to tell him that it had finally happened.

As they prepared for bed, Greg seemed to take note of Mycroft’s sombre attitude and asked him about it, but Mycroft couldn’t even find the words for a convincing lie.

“You know what’s wrong with Sherlock, don’t you?” Greg asked him after a moment of looking him up and down.

Mycroft stared at him without answering. It really was a bother, sometimes, to have someone that knew you so well, even if they couldn’t read your every movement like people of Mycroft’s or Sherlock’s calibre could....well, just Mycroft’s now.

Mycroft maintained his quiet stance and Gregory sighed at him in what he surely recognised as defeat after their months together. If Mycroft didn’t want to tell someone what was on his mind, it would take a stronger willed person than Gregory was to pry it out of him. It would take...

“Come here,” Gregory said to him, holding out his arms.

That never failed, either. Greg’s innate knowledge that Mycroft might need some physical comfort, despite the air that Mycroft _thought_ he had perfected years ago, the attitude that told all and sundry that he needed no one and nothing that anyone could offer him.

Caring was not an advantage.

Mycroft went into Greg’s arms, because despite his best intentions, right now, he did need some comfort.

Mycroft let Greg take him to bed, let Greg drape himself across Mycroft’s chest, let him cuddle the barely recognised tension from Mycroft’s body, let him kiss the worry from Mycroft’s head.

And Mycroft relaxed. He thought, just for a moment, that everything would turn out alright.

Caring was not an advantage.

Except when it was.

**Author's Note:**

> There was originally a part 2 planned for this, but I think I'm just going to break it up into random short oneshot scenes. Be on the lookout for a few of those. Thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed.


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